


Nepenthe

by DracoLikesHamsters, smallkindofdisaster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Lucius Malfoy, Azkaban, Character Death, Harry Potter is So Done, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, Memory Alteration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mentioned Narcissa Black Malfoy, Mind Manipulation, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Professor Harry Potter, Psychological Torture, Song Lyrics, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Triggers, also harry potter is a selfless person, but he also blames himself for everything under the sun because he's harry potter, it just so happens that the song works with a depressing plot, song lyrics really give too many ideas for plots, sorry - Freeform, we don't hate draco, yes this song is on tiktok and that's how we found it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26959507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoLikesHamsters/pseuds/DracoLikesHamsters, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallkindofdisaster/pseuds/smallkindofdisaster
Summary: (𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯) 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸; 𝘢 "𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴"; 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘖𝘥𝘺𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯'𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥"Mr. Malfoy, we understand your plight. We offer you the aid of the Ministry to repair your mind. After all, there is redemption for all in this new world, isn't there?"If it only it were so simple. But, there were always the fires, and heat melts glass, and things are rarely so easy and straightforward for Draco Malfoy.Just another day in the circus, as always.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter
Kudos: 21





	Nepenthe

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to our collaborative one shot Nepenthe, co-written by @smallkindofdisaster and @DracoLikesHamsters.
> 
> This fic is inspired by the song "The Mind Electric" by Miracle Musical. We do not own the rights to the song. We also do not own any of the characters or places mentioned in the story. They belong to J.K. Rowling and all relevant parties. We will not be making money off of this book. Please do not repost, translate, or make transformative works anywhere without our permission.
> 
> [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vfZjdK8Ktw) is the link to the song.
> 
> Trigger warnings for mental instability, mental breakdowns, torture, childhood trauma, physical abuse, memory alteration, and manipulation. Please read at your own discretion.

* * *

_Think of these thoughts as limitless light_

_Exposing closing circuitry of fright_

The bars in front of Draco reflected light from the torches on the walls. Something in the back of his mind connected it to the Manor. Nothing in the Manor was bright; it was shadows, darkness, blood, tears. Sounds were common, or at least the ones that played on a loop, mind-numbing and unfeeling. But the light on the bars had hope.

“Malfoy? Draco?”

More light. Perhaps Potter’s eyes were emeralds indeed; there was an unnatural shine to them, like the way a gem would refract the light against which it was held. Draco felt a hand sneak through the bars, but he dodged it. No touching. Touching was bad. Touching was fire and it smashed glass.

Potter’s mouth was making shapes, words maybe. Draco couldn’t hear. His mind was ringing, the light on the bars brightening. Twisting slightly, he saw the sun was slowly creeping up into the sky. The light on the bars rose with the angle of the sun, fading and intensifying at once.

Frankly, why did Potter care? This was his destiny, his fate. Just as Potter’s fate had been to bring down the Dark Lord, Draco’s fate was to suffer. The Chosen One. Draco was weak, he always had been. Lucius blamed it on Narcissa. Bless her soul, if she had one. Did he have a soul? Probably not. If he did, it would be a sliver of one, like the last piece of his mind. He was more damaged than the Dark Lord himself. Potter would shrink away if he knew, he would vanish like mist in the sun, disgusted. He could never understand, not him with his pure, loving soul. Untouched and unmarred. The pounding headache was getting worse. Perhaps if he pleaded enough, they would just kill him. No kiss from the dementors; just a clean and quick death. Draco knew not to expect such a luxury from a new regime eager to prove themselves different than their predecessors. In a past life, Draco was sure that he had been a Malfoy too. It would explain the extra baggage he carried in his mind.

_Think of each moment holding this breath_

_As death minute in decimal_

It was peaceful here, waiting in this cell. He had light, and silence, and emeralds. The flowers were sweet and whole. No touching, no voices, no fire. A haven located between two minutes, each their own kind of death. Potter was a silent specter, staring and staring but not touching, no fire. Life and death both existed in those eyes; Draco wondered if it was the same for his. A standoff, as always, Potter and Malfoy, Malfoy and Potter, now Malfoy. And Potter. Separate, divided, strangers. The emeralds softened. Potter’s mouth was moving again, but Draco was drifting, luxuriating in the silence, blessed silence. He was dancing in the fields of flowers. Draco closed his eyes and hummed, raised his arms, didn’t care when they bumped against the bars. The emeralds were gone now, so Draco opened his eyes. He liked the emeralds. But they had disappeared, two Aurors in their place, and noise came back to him like a wave slamming the beach.

_Resident minor how do you plead_

_We'll need your testimony on the stand_

"Draco Malfoy, you are present here in front of the Wizengamot on this day, the 30th of June in the year of 1999. Your trial begins now."

Draco's hands shook even harder, sweat dripping down his temples, his eyes watering at the bright light shining at him. The room was unbearably cold, or maybe that was just him. A man approached with a syringe, a thin needle on the end, the glint on the metal matching the cruel one in his eyes. He stuck it on the inside of Draco's arm within a vein, perhaps wishing that it were a more lethal weapon, and that the blood would flow and flow and flow, red liquid gushing out instead of the clear one pumping in: Veritaserum. Draco fought the urge to jump as the uncomfortable feeling progressed. They didn't trust him.

_Solemnly swear to tell the whole truth_

_So help you son now raise your right hand_

"Mr. Malfoy, you are aware of Veritaserum and its truth-inducing effects, am I correct?"

Draco steadied his voice, gathering every remnant of his composure, ruined as it was, before responding, "Yes, your honor."

"Mr. Malfoy, you know then that any struggle to say anything but the truth will result in immense pain?"

Draco nodded quickly, "Yes, sir."

The head Wizard looked down at his parchment, most likely deciding which route of manipulation to choose for Draco. Despite his attempts to quell Potter's fears of an unfair trial months ago, Draco had accepted his fate. His destiny had been set in stone long before his birth, before that of his father, and back to the miserable pureblood git who started it all. The unendurable weight of a hundred generations of bigotry rested upon his shoulders alone. It was no wonder that now it would come crashing down, letting ten thousand or more years of wretched history vanish into oblivion. Eternally disgraced on both sides, that's what Draco was.

"Draco Malfoy, you are accused of aiding the Dark Lord in the recent war, planning the murder of one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, repairing a bond between Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the establishment of Borgins and Burkes in Knockturn Alley, becoming a Death Eater, receiving the Dark Mark, harboring escaped Azkaban convicts, avid usage of the Unforgivables, participating in anti-Muggle terrorism, complying with the orders of the Dark Lord. How do you plead?"

Draco, if possible, trembled in his seat even harder. He managed to choke out a pitiful, "Guilty, sir," before he had to lock his jaw to stop his teeth from clattering together.

"Very well. Your trial does not allow for witnesses; however, you can give your own statement. Will you speak, Mr. Malfoy?"

The booming voice hit Draco like a mallet on a gong. Nodding slowly, he stood up shakily. Two Aurors came to his side, grabbing hold of his arms and roughly moving him towards the podium. He was almost thankful, for he doubted he could walk straight without help.

_Father your honor may I explain_

_My brain has claimed its glory over me_

_I've a good heart albeit insane_

Draco's voice broke as he began, "Your honor, my father taught me from an early age who I was to become. It was no different from a parent teaching their child how to cast a charm or ride a broom. It was not until I went to Hogwarts that I learned my grip was wrong. Pureblood families have always traditionally groomed their children to become the heirs of the next generation, upholding their ideals for posterity with little choice in the matter. Am I to be blamed for my upbringing?"

Draco paused for a minute, catching his breath while making eye contact with the Wizengamot. "Additionally, my own father used the Cruciatus curse on me when I refused to comply. I have been told by my late mother that those punishments were frequent."

A member of the Wizengamot locked eyes with Draco after that statement. She rifled through a stack of documents before holding up one piece of parchment.

"Mr. Malfoy, there are records that have been acquired from Healers at St. Mungo's addressing such issues. You have been diagnosed with multiple psychological disorders due to extended exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. Are you using this as a claim to your innocence?"

Draco blinked slowly, before warily adding, "Ma'am, I am pleading guilty. I can admit what I have done, only I wish for the extenuating circumstances to be known. Furthermore, I have no knowledge of said records. I don't remember ever going to St. Mungo's for maladies beyond the physical sense."

A murmur between the woman who was questioning him and the head honcho made Draco even more nervous, if possible.

"Mr. Malfoy, is it possible that you have had memory charms performed on you?" Draco's eyebrow rose, a reflex; this was Lucius Malfoy’s doing, he was sure. “Yes, it would be very possible,” Draco responded slowly.

“I did not want to be a Death Eater. Unfortunately, I wasn’t given much of a choice with the aid of the Imperius curse, under which I was made to accept the Dark Mark. I never truly believed in everything my father vehemently followed and raved about; I only acted how I did in school because I quite frankly didn’t know any better. I never learned that my words and actions were unacceptable or even necessarily bad.”

_Condemn him to the infirmary_

“Mr. Malfoy, we understand your plight. We offer you the aid of the Ministry to repair your mind. After all, there is redemption for all in this new world, isn’t there?”

Those words could have meant something nice. Maybe if Potter had been the one addressing him, it would’ve been sincere. But this was not the wild-haired former classmate of his who was speaking; this was a wizard who had lived through both attempts to steer the wizarding world in a draconian direction, led by an insane purist. This was a hardened war veteran, cured of all sympathy by desolate, hopeless circumstances.

_All mine towers crumble down the flowers gasping under rubble_

_Shrieking in the hall of lull thy genius sates a thirst for trouble_

There was no mercy for Draco Malfoy and his broken brain, or the pretty flowers and lights that would shatter in his mind, leaving broken glass that sliced when he thought too hard. Sometimes, Draco’s mind would use the shards to build walls and shields for Draco, but there were always the fires. Heat melts the glass. The melted glass would become the flowers and the cycle would start over. Never-ending and eternal. The trees were dead, the grass was dead, everything was dead. Isn’t that what Draco was? A husk of himself, with only the lights to guide him and the stentorian voice reverberating in his mind. The voice brought the fire. The glass remained shattered on the floor, cutting Draco as he walked through his mind.

Draco giggled lightly, people around him watching with a mixture of shock and false concern. The giggling turned into light laughter, which began to get louder and louder, becoming shrieks of mental anguish, not too different from the maniacal calls his aunt made.

_Scattering sparks of thought energy_

_Deliver me and carry me away_

The lights flickered and crackled. Draco desperately wished they wouldn’t break. His mind was dark enough as it was. The flowers were losing their petals in the fierce gale. A light shattered, the glass carried away by the wind. A petal drifted towards the bare wires, a spark, and fire, fire, fire everywhere.

Draco blinked and saw harsh white lighting. He was held up by the two men at his sides; he could only walk at their mercy. He hated that they were touching him; it burnt flowers and darkened lights. Long hallways and closed doors. For all he knew they led nowhere, a deception of possibility, an infinite reality. Blinked again and it was pitch-black, unimaginable darkness, unfathomably deep and flat at the same time. Like a void, swallowing the light. He could be in a closet or a ballroom; it was impossible to tell. Maybe he was blind. It didn’t matter if he was, as long as he was in this room it made no difference. Blinked once more and he could see; it was dim, desolate, and so, so cold. A small room with a door and little else, just a pillow on the floor. His, presumably, for the foreseeable future.

_Here in my kingdom I am your lord_

_I_ _order you to cower and pray_

Lucius had once locked him in a room like this. It had been cold, made of stone, and it sucked the soul out of you. It brought back memories of trying to kill himself and never having to see the people who had given him life only out of necessity and personal gain. They needed an heir, a son; not a child to love. It had always been one sided. Marriage was done because your blood was pure, and there were no faults in the way you could deliver a curse. There were no hesitations in your lies and twisted truths, and no one could heat the stone of your heart.

Draco wondered if his mother had ever noticed that he tended to her beloved flower garden, his accidental magic sometimes teasing the blooms open, timidly flaring their petals and revealing their vital, delicate parts.

No, that would have been too much to ask for.

_Nuns commence incanting as the lightning strikes mine temples thus_

_Electrifying mine chambers wholly scorching out thine sovereignty_

The first time they started treating him, Draco actually thought that it would help. What did he know? No one had told him what the mind was supposed to be like. He was taught to tear his dreams apart like a rabid animal; to dream was to be weak. Purebloods achieved goals, but goals were not dreams. Goals were accomplishable, straightforward, and utilitarian; dreams were pointless and naive and distracting.

_Spiraling down thy majesty_

_I beg of thee have mercy on me_

The flowers, not the flowers. His father would give him the beating of his life if he crushed the flowers that were his mother’s namesake. The only thing his mother loved were her flowers and maybe Draco. Where was his mother? Maybe she too was with the flowers. Draco’s feet carried him through the crunching. The ground was crimson with fresh blood, layering on top of the burgundy-brown of dried blood below. Draco didn’t remember being in this part. Why was every flower the same? There were traces of green, the deep, unfeeling poisonous green of Slytherin. The thought sent a chill down his spine, and Draco yearned for home. What was home? Was there even a home? Didn’t he have a home?

Draco waded further into the flowers, or what was left of them anyway. The flowers over here were stained by his blood. No green, just the turbulent, troubled grey of storm clouds. The texture was smooth, and matte. It was sharper here, the edges unexpected. The pain he felt across his chest was familiar, but the memories attached were foreign. Draco couldn’t remember who he used to be. He couldn’t go further; the pain had spread everywhere. It was chilling; fire felt cold to Draco. Like being doused with ice, knives pricked his skin. Curling up on his side, he began to sob. He was mewling, calling names that echoed constantly in his ears and mind. Who were they? Did they miss Draco? Had they loved him?

Draco continued to cry. The voice was back in the room, screaming for him to sit up. To stand, to move, to do what the voice said. Draco couldn’t; it hurt. He wanted the flowers to grow again. The voice increased in volume, reaching an intolerably loud boom. He continued to lay on his side, crying tears that were tinted with what looked like ink, the dark color staining shattered flowers. The voice told him to stop crying and the fires began again.

Draco’s cries were incoherent by that point. The screams resembled that of a wounded dog, with salty tears burning his eyes. He wanted it to stop; the voices, the screams, and all the hands on him.

The healer watched the blond writhe under the spells and charms, his screams silenced after about half an hour. They were repetitive, with calls for Narcissa Malfoy being the most frequent. The begging was hollow, as if Draco didn’t truly mean the pleads for mercy. Maybe he deserved the pain.

_I was just a boy you see_

  
“Draco.” He looked up to see his father towering over his five-year old frame. His voice was cold, and Draco instantly feared it.

“Draco, I want to show you something.” Lucius did not wait for his son to respond, stalking away. By the time Draco caught up, he was nearly the same height as his father, at least 16 years old. They walked in tandem, like father like son, ever the perfect heir. A sudden right and left and right twice, walking and walking and suddenly stopped, entering a room without opening a single door. The sacred study, a place he was seldom allowed, especially since he was only three. He walked unsteadily, blindly following his father, his protector, a powerful giant. “Draco, when you start at Hogwarts this year, what will you do to make this family proud?” He knew, he was fourteen, and he knew by now what his father expected him to say. But he couldn’t say it, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t hear or think or lie.

“Wrong answer,” came the cold voice, the one that brought fire, all too soon. “Do not resist.”

And there was pain, and suffering, and pain, and pain, and pain. Ceaseless, infinite. When it was over, when the universe had restarted, and the flames had burned through his mind and body and spirit, Lucius asked, “What will you do?”

And he croaked out, “Kill the mudbloods. Long live the Dark Lord.”

_I plead of thee have sympathy for me_

  
Draco saw the shoes of the new healer. They were scuffed, different from the leather shoes he’d been seeing for however long he’d been wherever he was. If only he knew where he was.  
The new person stepped all over the flowers, and they paid no mind to Draco’s whining gasps as he tried to say to avoid them. They didn’t smash them down like the way some healers would to mock Draco’s agony; this one just walked carelessly, not necessarily attempting to provoke Draco’s sorrow. Draco meant nothing to them, not even as someone to resent and torture.

“Mister Malfoy, it appears that our treatments aren’t working. In order to find a new cure, we will be searching your memories. Do not resist.”

They said it like Draco had a choice. The wood of the wand tip touched the temple of his head, making Draco involuntarily flinch. His head tucked between his legs, hands rising in a futile attempt of protection and consolation. A familiar pair of shoes appeared in his peripheral vision before one swung violently towards Draco’s legs. With his lack of strength, Draco’s legs flattened against the cold ground, his upper body swinging towards his knees. A pair of strong hands gripped the blond hair on his head, yanking it backwards. Draco’s vocal cords, raw from his screams, could only emit a light whine. Another blow from the foot, but to his face. The metallic taste in his mouth was startling but familiar. Crimson and ivory curved in a sickening smile, not dissimilar from one given by a man on his deathbed.

“Have I made you proud, father?”

Another blow to the head, and darkness invaded his thoughts.

_See how the serfs work the ground_

_And they give it all they've got_

_And they give it all they've got_

_And you give it all you've got 'til you're down_

The memories were the worst. Legilimens had stampeded their way into Draco’s cell, swarming around his mind. They picked apart every scene of his life, like it was some sort of entertainment for them to watch. It was for their amusement; to view his darkest secrets, his deepest fears, and his hidden joys gave them twisted pleasure. Draco’s shielded mind held no longer under the pressure of magic because they knew how he hid. They knew how he had been tortured after refusing to give up Potter and his friends at the manor, after he had failed his mission in sixth year. From the day of his birth, his father had delivered cold treatment to his son’s innocent soul, abusing it to compliance. Draco wasn’t more than a splinter in a wand, a conduit for its master to perform a spell. If the wand lost the piece of wood, it would appear less whole, but functional nonetheless.

Draco fled to the garden, ribs aching from sobs that tore at his lungs. His breaths were uneven and frantic, as if every breath would be his last. And he hoped that it would be. The flowers were nothing more than pieces, the sanctity of their purity no more whole than his mind. At this point, was he crying for himself or for the flowers that didn’t deserve the cruelty dealt to his mental and physical self?

_See how the brain plays around_

_And you fall inside a hole you couldn't see_

_And you fall inside a hole inside_

It had been a while since the glass had been shattered. Where were his mother’s flowers? He searched daily, wading into the infinite fields, searching for survivors. The glass crunched under the slight weight he carried. All he wanted to do was find the flowers. Why were they like this? What did his memory of them lack? They were in his mind, so did they need water? Weren’t they glass? Or were they velvety soft, smooth, and alive? Draco couldn’t remember.

_Someone help me_

_Understand what's going on inside my mind_

The only thing Draco could hear were his own screams. They reverberated around his skull, making it harder for him to concentrate on the last shred of his sanity. His vocal cords were burning, but the glass flowers were still okay. Did that mean it was fine?

Running his fingers gently along the surface of the petals, Draco smiled to himself. Hollow, but it held an artificial sweetness to it.

The healer walked back into his cell, making Draco instinctively hold his knees closer to his chest. The last of his stable mind knew that he had to fear the healer, but the voices in his head told him to ask for help. He knew it was a new healer because the shoes and the wand were different. Maybe they were here to really help him, not hurt him. Maybe they would untangle the mess of his mind, understand it, _fix_ it.

_Doctor I can't tell if I'm not me_

“Draco Malfoy, how are you feeling today?”

Draco’s hope flew out the window, his heart constricting as he knew that today was just another moment in the circus. There was no point in lying, no point in hope; it just made it worse.

“The voices in my mind are loud today. My throat hurts. I was screaming in my sleep.”

Nodding, the healer scratched the quill against the parchment. The note-taking was another facade. There would be no records of what these people were doing to Draco.

“Well then, I suppose you’re ready for your treatment today, Mr. Malfoy. Do not resist.”

_When it grows bright the particles start to_

_Marvel having made it through the night_

Perhaps there was a window just to mock him. To mock his fortune; the ability to see freedom, but never taste it. Maybe one day that glass will shatter too, just like in his mind, and his flowers will flutter in the wind like an eternal dance.

The pain is something to which Draco has acclimatized himself. Spell after spell, the invasion of his mind, the sobs involuntarily wracking his fragile body. Is there pain? He can’t tell, can’t feel, every second is a new torture.

_Never they ponder whether electric_

_Calming if you look at it right!_

Something in the corner of the room caught Draco’s attention. The shadows gather tighter and tighter together to form a body. Potter’s emerald eyes gleam at him. It’s been a long time since Draco has seen lights. The ones in his mind are rather dim these days. Perhaps the healers have changed their tactics. Maybe Lucius stopped drinking out of his glass cups. Narcissa never did like the goblets his father preferred; she always said they were too gaudy, but Draco would silently retort that his father’s existence was rather gaudy in and of itself.

The eyes locked with his own, the rounded frames of Potter’s glasses still a little bent out of shape. Maybe Granger had yet to repair them, or maybe they couldn’t be fixed.

“Draco? Draco…” Potter’s voice called out, sounding distant and underwater. Draco’s lanky hand reached out, aimlessly flopping back to hit the top of Draco’s thigh. If it hurt, Draco didn’t react. It took more than that to penetrate the weary cocoon of desensitization wrapped around him, protecting yet distancing.

Shushing Draco’s involuntary whine, Potter reached out for Draco’s face. Without proper nutrition or even the capacity to move, Draco couldn’t avoid him this time. Fire. Shattering. Melting.

“It’s okay, Draco. All you need to do is hold onto me, alright? I’m going to make it go away. You just need to look at the light.”

Draco’s mouth curved into a dopey smile, his eyes unfocused and dazed. His hand reached out once more to the golden boy, the Boy Who Lived. A stupid moniker. Who had ever been celebrated so for mere survival, besides Potter? The emerald eyes shone back at him, a beacon, a ray, a flood. The glass flowers shattered. The lights in Draco’s mind whirled around, spinning and continually brightening. The cold feeling Draco was used to was replaced by the fiery spark of pain, relieving in its warmth, and then the grass around the glass flowers began to change into an emerald green. The trees around him grew leaves, the lights joining together into sunlight. And everything was green.

* * *

_Epilogue_

“What do you mean you have no idea what happened?”

Harry Potter knew that he could be incredibly dense about seven times out of ten. He knew because Hermione had told him so. At least he wasn’t dense nine times out of ten, like Ron. Hermione’s long string of giggles followed by Ron’s delayed offended choke played in his head, sending a small smile to his face. And as soon as it appeared, it fell. The waves around the boat lapping lazily and the dementors loosely guarding the haunting structure in front of him nudged at a couple memories in the back of his mind. Now was not the time to harp on repressed things of the past.

Inhaling deeply, Harry Potter stepped out of the boat and onto the dock. Entering the building, he felt several charms wash over him; extra security, no doubt. He distantly remembers being told about this on the way over, but the chill is still unexpected. The lift ride is silent, the Ministry workers glancing at him with trepidation. Why Harry was here was beyond his comprehension, but he didn’t like the foreboding feeling clouding his limited optimism. They arrive to the door, Harry’s breath hitching at the plaque to the right. No, they swore-

“What the hell is this? Why-” Harry is interrupted by one of the Ministry workers before Harry can explain in detail about how he’s about to have a mental breakdown.

“Mr. Potter, sir. Mr. Draco Malfoy managed to kill himself. We tried-”

Harry removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard that he’s liable to break it. His inhale is shaky, much like his mind. When they had said psychological treatment, the Ministry had told him that they were to send him to France, where he would be granted asylum and helped to recuperate from the warping of his mind. Instead, they had lied to him, again.

“Do you mean to tell me that you incompetent, _spineless_ weasels _lied_ to the bloody _Boy Who Lived_?” Harry’s implicit threat chilled the already freezing corridor another 10 degrees, the Ministry employees reaching for their holsters. Using some nonverbal magic, the three wands flew to his open hand with a clatter.

“Isn’t that a little rash? I wasn’t planning to shoot the messenger. One of you better explain _in detail_ what happened here.”

Harry entered the room. A pillow was on the floor, flat and creased with obvious usage. The room hummed with magic, residue from strong enchantments used continuously. And then there was the body. The blond hair was matted, a combination of what Harry assumed was blood and sweat and sheer indifference on the healers’ part. The once lanky but muscular frame was malnourished and limp, a hand stretched out to the corner to the left of the door. Harry couldn’t see the face, but he didn’t feel the need to. He didn’t need to see another dead person’s blank eyes, not when this pair used to be tenacious and fiery and alive.

Harry liked to say that he was able to tell a wizard by simple deductive reasoning, but it went deeper than that. Harry had never recognized it before - most likely due to his exile from the magical world at an early age with his relatives - but after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry finally knew what he felt. He called it an aura very loosely, but he guessed that it was magical cores he sensed. And he couldn’t feel Draco’s. No trace. He always felt something, at least; that’s why in Godric’s Hollow, he’d believed that Bathilda Bagshot had been alive. Her magical touch had created a metaphorical residue in the places she frequented. Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, silently praying to whatever higher power was torturing their creations. The cell was not all that tightly warded against magic; he figured he could cast any spell in this room with a bit of effort. And, the magical residue of others proved that there was nothing that had been keeping Draco from casting a spell. His heart dropped into his stomach, a stony chill glazing over his body. The feeling that Draco had was too close to that of-

“Mr. Potter, are you aware of someone by the name of Healer Trocair?” Harry vaguely registered the voice, linking it to the single man in the group of Ministry workers.

“No. Should I know who they are?”

“Well, he left behind a medicinal theory of the mind of former Death Eaters. He had _methods_ as to how he thought the children of those people should be taken care of. He knew that the further the lineage would go, the more trauma the descendants would accumulate. The Malfoy line in particular was a favorite for him. The most inbred pureblood family since the Dark Ages, an avalanche snowballing into issue after issue. He reckoned that the crossing of the Black and Malfoy bloodlines in Draco would create massive internal turmoil. To be honest, the obsession wasn’t obvious, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s breathing was beyond erratic. It was a wonder that his lungs weren’t shutting down because he was sure that if he even moved, his limbs would give out. The urge to vomit threatened.

“You speak in the past tense; where is this man?”

“He’s dead. Blew up the wall behind you and hit his head on the rocks below. Most of the bones in his body were shattered; dead on impact. His wand was with him, and the most recent spells before _bombarda_ were used on Mr. Malfoy’s already dead body,” one of the two women spoke up. Her dull grey hair was streaked with an even ashier brown, which, along with the reading glasses on the end of her nose, completed her “incompetent bureaucrat” look.

Harry at this point was done with all the shit he had to listen to. He heard it day in and day out; to be completely honest, this was why he’d ended up choosing not to be an Auror. He had an obligation to teach the next generation of kids and make sure no adult was going to screw with their minds the way Dumbledore had with his. And that’s how Professor Harry Potter was going to make his contribution to society, apart from the whole “Boy Who Lived” gig he’d had for 18 years.

“Alright, so this Healer had access to Malfoy. And what exactly did he do?”

The words that tumbled out of the third Ministry person actually did make Harry vomit, and he directed it out of the gaping hole where the window used to be.

“He wanted to, and I quote, ‘Extract the magical core from someone incapable of controlling their magic using any method necessary’, which he did accomplish,” the sandy blonde wheezed out, “he attempted to create horcruxes out of Mr. Malfoy’s soul, but failed when he had no host for the pieces. So, he changed tactics and attempted to rid Mr. Malfoy of his magic. He theorized that his magic was driving him mad, inherited from his family, tainted from all those years of inbreeding and Dark Magic. It all led back to his theory on the Malfoy lineage.”

After losing his breakfast, Harry’s stomach dry heaved for a couple minutes. Tears were slipping out of his eyes, from both the burn due to his stomach acid and the thought of Draco’s magical core being slowly stripped out of him. He felt it now; the anguish, the pain, the shattering of Draco’s fragile mind. Had he really deserved this?

Harry wished he had done more. Deep inside his heart, he’d known that Draco Malfoy needed help, all the way back in sixth year. Eighth year had been when Draco finally opened up, even if it was just his hollow physical body. The smiles were sometimes filled with a sliver of true amusement, and his witty lines were at least half-hearted. There, in the desecrated ruins of what had once been his home, Harry promised himself he would start caring about what happened to Draco Malfoy. Harry could do nothing for his mind - Draco refused to let him in - but Harry could protect him. He broke his promise. Harry hadn’t cared nearly enough; if he had, he would have found out sooner that Draco was trapped on this miserable island, tortured, defiled, and afraid. Did Draco feel all that pain? He didn’t doubt that tears stained Draco’s face, creating negative space through the grime out of his practically translucent skin. For the sake of what was left of Draco’s soul, he hoped that maybe something had shielded him, even if it had been his sick mind.

Clearing their throat rudely, the male Ministry worker attempted to get Harry’s attention. “Mr. Malfoy’s death was to be expected. Mr. Trocair was using Mr. Malfoy as his test subject for his procedure. He tested the limits of extracting a magical being’s power. We suppose that the stress of it made Mr. Malfoy combust and that his magic attempted to retaliate one last time, but in the end he killed himself using nonverbal wandless magic.” The nasal voice made Harry want to snap his glasses in half. Had they seen Draco as anything more than a prisoner of war? Was he even human in their eyes?

“One last thing, Mr. Potter. The Ministry of Magic would like to give you the remainder of Mr. Malfoy’s possessions,” a voice said. Harry’s ears were ringing, so he couldn’t exactly concentrate on which wanker had been addressing him. “Draco Malfoy had plenty of other friends, they’re just internationally spread out. Why not send his stuff to them? Or his next of kin?” That was a lie. Most of the people Draco had relied on for sympathy and understanding had killed themselves or disappeared. Harry was asking this for pure bullshit formality, and to see if the others would follow procedure.

“Would you not like his possessions?”

“No, I’ll take them,” Harry responded heavily. Of course they wouldn’t waste time tracking down a relative. The lightheaded feeling was not abating any time soon. What pray tell could Malfoy have left behind?

A small pouch was handed to him by one of the three stooges. Harry opened it with trepidation, expecting it to be filled with several things. Instead, Harry’s fingers brushed the bottom and were poked by pieces of...was that wood?

“What’s in here?”

“Whatever is left of Mr. Malfoy’s wand. The guard said it had broken on its own. It might have been a combination of the unicorn hair core and the hawthorn wood. We aren’t sure.”

Harry didn’t need an explanation as to why they didn’t know. They didn’t deem the issue important enough to bring to Ollivander, so they just left the pieces for Harry.

A Malfoy legacy, shattered. Like the last of its heirs. A bloodline, at an end.


End file.
